I waited for him to respond, but he just sat there staring off into space for maybe thirty seconds, which is a long time when you’re waiting for an answer.

“I can’t do it,” Rubino said finally. “I’m sorry. I don’t know enough, and if I make inquiries, it would be dangerous for both of us. The French are all over me. But I know someone who’s quite an expert on this sort of thing. Maybe he can assist you.”

“Help me out!” I felt a sudden surge of anger at the calm, controlled man across from me. I was out on a limb, and he was just sitting there watching. “You’re playing games. I need some sign from you whether this is worth pursuing.”

“Hold on!” he said sharply, and then lowered his voice. “You’re not listening. I just offered to help you, by putting you in touch with someone who really knows things. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think the story was worth pursuing.”

“Sorry. I was out of line. How will I find your expert, then?” I was still miffed that Rubino was refusing to help me personally, but a part of me was also relieved. The CIA was poison; every journalist knew that.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Rubino. “If he can help, he’ll find you. But don’t come back and see me on this one. You’re on your own.”

6

6

My first encounter with Rupert Cohen is fixed in my mind, like a birthday or a funeral or some other ritual event that takes on increasing significance with the passage of time. It started innocuously enough. I was in the Saint-Philippe, across the street from my office, drinking the morning cappuccino with three spoons of sugar and reading the French papers. It was a Friday, the day after my encounter with Tom Rubino. I was hoping to get out of Paris that weekend and visit some friends who had rented an old mill in the Loire Valley.

I was sitting there in a pleasant daze when a stranger approached me with an eager smile, as if he had just spotted a long-lost friend. He was dressed like a German filmmaker, in a fuzzy black sweater, black pants and a black leather jacket. He was about my age, maybe thirty-five, medium height, hair short except for a tuft at the top. And he had a subversive gleam in his eye that I eventually came to understand was the mark of a man who—whatever other ideology he professed—was an anarchist, a professional troublemaker.

“Am I late?” he asked cheerily. He settled down next to me and took a sip from my coffee.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Cohen, Rupert.” He had an eager tone of voice, like those people who do car ads on TV. “I’m the fellow a mutual friend said would be looking you up.”